


Chase the Shadows Away

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-29
Updated: 2008-07-29
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: What if Bridget's friends had kept their mouths shut after Thailand?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Inspired by the music of ABBA, a plotbunny I'd been wanting to use for some time, and [a story](http://community.livejournal.com/anyones_face/4720.html) by the lovely [](http://ebonybeach.livejournal.com/profile)[**ebonybeach**](http://ebonybeach.livejournal.com/). 
> 
> Disclaimer: Nope. No endorsements from the establishment to be forthcoming. Especially not if they saw this.

_i. take me through the darkness_

Bridget was beginning to wish she were still in a Thai prison.

In the week and a half since her return, not a word, not a _single_ word from her friends about the circumstances leading to her release amidst their unflagging support, their attempts to raise her spirits, almost as if the whole debacle had become a forbidden subject; it seemed as if she'd been plucked out of the prison and dropped back into her life, expected to carry on as if she hadn't had a completely mind-blowing epiphany surrounded by the dank walls of her cell and the seeming multitudes of the unfortunate Thai women she shared that cell with:

She had utterly and irretrievably fucked it up with the best man she'd ever been with.

_You really don't know what you've got 'til it's gone_ , she thought, wrestling down the little Joni Mitchell voice threatening to surface. To think that Mark had only been a messenger during her awful ordeal, no longer caring enough to reluctantly lift more than a finger for her, hurt her more than any physical pain could have.

Then there was Daniel, whom she really had no interest in any longer, but she'd at least been flattered by his attention prior to their trip; after her return, he seemed to avoid her like the plague. She had learned earlier that week that he'd moved off to another production company offering more money. It was just as well. She might have, in a moment of weakness, done the unthinkable and gone back with him given the opportunity.

_I'm not that desperate_ , she thought, almost like a mantra.

So now, here she was, all alone in an editing room considerably smaller than her cell in Thailand—which in itself made her antsy—nursing a cup of tepid coffee, but she'd been too tired to argue against Finch's request to go through Daniel's unused footage to see if there was anything salvageable for small blurbs between segments. As she went through tape after tape, watching mindlessly and half in a daydream state, she was actually kind of thankful for the solitude.

It was the sound of an unexpected voice coming out of the speaker that pulled her from the abyss of her dark thoughts: there in the Serpentine Gallery with Daniel was none other than Mark himself; the conversation, the film kept rolling even though Daniel had yelled 'cut.' She watched in confusion, struggling to comprehend what she was hearing, when it occurred to her that Mark was grilling Daniel about leaving her to the authorities in Thailand. She was getting dizzy watching the camera pan back and forth between Mark and Daniel, but even the quickest shots of him evidenced Mark's tangible anger.

If he were angry, that meant—

"No. He didn't care," she said quietly to herself. "Face facts, Bridget."

She watched in utter surprise as the cameraman quickly moved to follow the two of them as they suddenly left—chased one another?—out of the gallery. The picture bobbed and weaved as the cameraman tried to keep up with the now physically sparring pair. Her mouth hung open slack as the fight led to the fountain outside the Serpentine.

Then into the water itself.

Just when she thought things couldn't get more bizarre, she found herself reaching for the rewind knob and scrolling back a few seconds. She couldn't believe her ears. What the hell—? Had she really just heard Daniel admit to Mark that he'd never slept with her in Thailand?

Was she really seeing Mark's look of utter puzzlement, challenged with what he had accepted as truth being anything but? Of… relief?

Her head was whirling as she watched Mark climb out of the fountain, as she heard Daniel ask flippantly, "If you're so obsessed with Bridget Jones, why don't you just marry her?" The camera was so close it captured the subtlest nuance of Mark's expression; she knew him well enough to know he was stunned to be presented with the idea, and the way his expression flickered told her he might have actually been considering it…

"No," she told herself again. "You're just seeing what you want to see."

She barely heard the glib follow-up remark that caused Mark to climb back in to the fountain to try to pummel the living Jesus out of Daniel, but it hardly mattered for the tears that had welled in her eyes. Even after learning the very truth she'd tried to convey to him during their prison meeting, he had not cared enough to come to her.

She hadn't thought it possible, but she was even more depressed now. She reached over and switched off the tape. Gathering up her coffee and her notebook, she left the editing room, dropping her coffee into a trash bin, passing briefly by Richard Finch's desk to tell him she was going home sick for the day before doing exactly that.

………

It was nearing midnight when she woke from the nap that had taken her pretty much the moment she had gotten home and had dropped on the sofa with an exhausted sigh. She wasn't sure if it was normal for the time difference to still be taking such a toll on her. She was pretty sure it wasn't normal not to feel hungry after over twelve hours without food.

It was black as pitch around her, and instinctively she reached for the telly remote. She flipped it on and searched for the most mindless drivel she could find, landing on some movie that, were it a book, would have been a torrid romance novel printed on the cheapest newsprint imaginable. Realising she was still in her work clothes, she went to her bedroom and found a pair of summer pyjamas: soft and slightly fuzzy, short-sleeved button-down cotton top and shorts decorated with a faded multi-coloured heart pattern.

Sighing as she slipped into the overly cheery sleep set, she cursed herself for not having done her laundry sooner.

After watching more bedroom scenes than she thought could possibly fit into a half-hour of movie time, she realised this sort of mindless drivel wasn't helping at all. Rather than turn it off, she set the telly to mute, masochistically preferring the cold blue glow of the screen to the warm lamplight.

She rose from the sofa, stretched, and went to the window, opening it to take a deep breath of night air. The weather had remained unseasonably warm, and the walls of her flat had really begun to close in on her just as they had in the editing room; it was probably prison-induced claustrophobia, and she hoped it would wane in time.

The breeze blew her hair back as she leaned on the sill, and she closed her eyes, sighing. There was a pleasant, cool edge to the air that had been sorely lacking in Bangkok, and she thought once again how happy she was to be at home, despite her loneliness.

She heard the approach of footsteps on the pavement below, so she opened her eyes and saw a solitary male figure appear from around the corner to her left, almost on the same trajectory she'd once seen Mark departing her building from through the snow.

At just that moment, the figure happened to glance up, freezing in place on the sidewalk across the street as he did. Time stood still; her breath caught in her throat; the features she saw highlighted by the street lights were features she was all too familiar with. Their gazes locked at this unmistakable chance-aligning-of-planets-type event; she asked stupidly, her voice echoing into the night, "Mark?"

He seemed ashamed to have been lurking about in the streets at such a late hour; he took a step backwards as if he might bolt back towards his house, looking rather like a frightened hare in a hunter's sights.

She continued, asking, "What are you doing?"

He didn't say anything right away, then offered a very obvious, "Taking a walk."

Mark was not the type to take nocturnal walks. He rarely even stayed up past ten-thirty in the evening during the week. It was definitely a sign.

"Wait there."

Before she could give it conscious thought, she was bolting away from the window and down the stairs to the front door of the building. And then she was face to face with him, her breath ragged with the effort of running, her bare feet slightly abraded from the pavement as she stood there unsteadily.

It was only then she realised she had no idea what she was going to say to him.

"I saw the footage from the Serpentine," she blurted.

He blinked rapidly.

She continued, "I did try to tell you in the prison meeting room that I hadn't gone back with Daniel, you know."

He still said nothing. She decided to go for broke. She didn't figure she had much to lose.

"We may not have parted on the best terms," she said unsteadily, "and God knows I acted like a shit the night I did the stupidest thing I've _ever_ done in my life, but I would like to know what else it is I've done that you can't seem to stand the sight of me anymore. I mean, I thought it _must_ have been that you thought I'd shagged Daniel, but..." She trailed off, watching him watching her with intense scrutiny.

"Can't stand the sight of you?" he said quietly, at long last. "Hardly."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, feeling a surge of adrenaline go through her. He didn't seem to be inclined to reply. "Mark," she began insistently, "what is that supposed to—?"

"I thought it was you who wanted nothing more to do with me," he said, calmly and at very low volume. It was still enough to stop her from speaking. "That seemed pretty plain the night you left."

She waited for him to say more. She was sure more was coming and for that she was glad; she could not have spoken at that moment even if she'd wanted to.

"So I stayed away," he said eventually. He broke their gaze suddenly, looked away. "I just wanted to—" He caught himself, like he'd already said too much.

"'Wanted to' what?"

They stood there for many moments in awkward silence. The chill in the air seemed to intensify during that time, making her acutely aware of her apparel, even though she wouldn't have gone inside to change for all the world.

She couldn't bear the quiet any longer and at last said his name. He didn't meet her eyes, merely closed his own. Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears; she was almost, _almost_ too afraid to continue. "If you need to hear me say I still lo—"

His eyes flashed up to meet hers again, interrupting her better than any spoken words could. The spark of hope imbuing his brown eyes was unmistakable before it inexplicably snuffed out in a flash. "Which of them told you?" he asked somewhat bitterly.

"Told me?" she asked. "Told me what?"

He continued to gaze unblinkingly at her. "You don't have to pretend. I didn't figure your friends could keep it to themselves. I just didn't think it'd make you feel quite so indebted to me."

"Mark, I have no idea what you're talking about. What did you do that I should feel so grateful for?"

The blankness of her return stare must have been enough for him to believe her. He suddenly looked very weary, seemed at once to realise he was standing on the sidewalk across the street from her building in the middle of a moon-bathed night. "You really don't know."

It was getting almost comical. "I don't know if I don't know until you tell me."

He took in a great breath, and then… then he explained to her how he had been the one to orchestrate her release from prison; how he'd sprung into action the moment Sharon had contacted him upon her return; how he had not rested until Jed had been forced out of one country and into another with an extradition treaty with the UK; how he'd gotten Jed to confess and had thus secured her freedom. It was all something of a blur as the truth of it set in: 

He had been more than a messenger. Much, much more.

There were no words for how she felt, nothing that she could say that could possibly convey how her love for him, already quite entrenched in her heart and soul, had been thoroughly secured by this admission with no sense of indebtedness whatsoever. Even though he had been convinced she'd been over him for good—and had returned to the one man in his life he could truly call 'enemy'—he had still done everything in his considerable power to save her.

That meant he still loved her. There was no way she was only seeing what she wanted to see.

As she stood there she remembered she'd always been taught that actions speak louder than words, so she sprinted forward two more steps, leapt up on tiptoes, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his, insisting repeatedly, wordlessly, that she wanted _everything_ to do with him.

Clearly taken aback, he did not respond immediately, but then she felt his strong arms around her, one against the bare skin at the small of her back where her top had ridden up, one enfolding her shoulders, as he pulled her bodily against him; his lips parted and responded to her kiss enthusiastically; his hands raced up her back, weaved into her hair then cradled her face as he reared his head back to regard her.

She had never seen tears well in his eyes before.

"I love you," she said decisively, just in case he had any lingering doubts. "I don't care about the stupid things we fought about, children's names, riding horses, boarding schools or even bloody Rebecca. I only care about being with you."

It was the sound of a pair of hands clapping quite vigorously that jerked her out of the moment. She spun around and out of Mark's arms, desperately searching for the source of the sound until she found it: her neighbour, Mr Ramdas—the one she'd almost ploughed down the night she and Mark had first gotten together—was perched on his own windowsill, smiling like a madman as he sat there apparently applauding for them.

She was totally mortified, unable to move or speak until she heard Mark's shoe scuff on the concrete as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. _Oh, God; if I'm mortified,_ thought Bridget, _he must be wanting the earth to swallow him whole._

"Mark," she said in a low tone she hoped wouldn't carry, turning around to face him. As was the norm, he was inscrutable. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause a spectacle."

"No," he said. "Please, don't apologise." Only then did his features change enough for her to see that he was actually starting to smile. He stepped forward and took hold of her upper arm, his thumb brushing against her bare skin. "Perhaps, however, we should leave the stage, wander to the wings to continue this… conversation."

She nodded. It was a very good idea.

Once upstairs, he stepped in to her flat, looking around as if trying to figure out what had changed, stopping and staring in disbelief at his framed picture still on her bookshelf before turning back to her. "I acknowledge," he began calmly, "that we are two very different people."

She nodded again.

"So I'd like to lay a few ground rules if we're going to… well. Give this another go."

"Ground rules?"

"Yes," he said, sounding as stern as he looked. "You are never again to call me a stuck-up snob or make fun of my folded underpants," he said, cocking an eyebrow, coming close to her. "I, in turn, will never call you ridiculous, nor will I complain about your pathological tardiness."

"Agreed," she said, feeling his fingers sweeping along her hip before clasping a hand on her waist. She caught her breath. She'd forgotten what his proximity could do to her.

"I will do my best to remember that you are more important to me that a meaningless tradition or a political stance," he continued, his voice softer, more emotional, as he placed his other hand on her waist and drew her to him. She rested her hands on his upper arms. "And you will remember that there is no one I would rather order takeaway pizza with, laugh with, or share my life with, that if I wanted a stick insect, as you call them, I'd have one."

"I will remember," she said, her eyelids falling closed as he brushed his lips on her cheek, teasing, taunting her with almost-kisses.

"I promise to bear in mind that we are both, by nature of being human, not perfect," he said; how he could carry on speaking like this while his fingers played along the edge of her pyjama shirt, while his desire was obviously building ever more insistently against her abdomen, was beyond her understanding. "And you too will take off your rose-coloured glasses, accept the same, and accept that I really do love you as you are, even if you think you're 'just a little bit fat'." As he said this, he demonstrated his appreciation of her figure by tracing his fingers down the centre of her spine, then down over her bottom to stroke it lightly but insistently.

"Are you almost done with the rules and regulations?" she asked, her exhalations unsteady, hands rising to his shoulders, then weaving into his hair. "Because I'd really like to get to the reconciliation sex."

He chuckled, pressing his lips to her chin. "There was another section addressing communication," he said huskily, "but I somehow don't think—"

_Shut up_ , she thought, moving to take his mouth with hers in another fierce kiss, moving her hands down his body to find the edge of his jumper, the waist of his trousers.

"—I somehow don't think," he went on, to her amazement as he pulled back, his breath steaming on her neck, as one hand went to the lower hem of her bottoms, fingernails raking up the back of her thighs, the other hand skimming the skin of her stomach, "that you'll have any problem letting me know what you want…"

She giggled, or at least she tried; instead it left her throat as a choked sound as he took a breast in one palm and pushed the hardened peak up against her; the fingers of the other hand edged up under the bottoms, to the lower elastic of her pants on her rear, to between her legs, to quite directly let her know exactly what he wanted.

"Mark," she gasped, her knees practically buckling under her.

"As I thought, my darling… fucking… Bridget," he said quietly into her ear, his palm, his fingers pushing into her at each pause then continuing in counterpoint, his teeth taking the edge of her earlobe. She couldn't think straight but it did not escape her notice that the vulgarity was creeping in, which was an even more telling indication than the firmness against her hip of just how much he wanted her.

The only thing that stopped him from bringing her to climax right then and there was her own fingers pressing hard against the front of his trousers. He groaned; she laughed low in her throat. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it, hm?" she teased.

"I'm pretty sure I can do both," he said hoarsely, "but not whilst fully dressed and standing in the middle of your sitting room floor, with you absolutely fucking hot in my hands."

Twice in as many minutes. It was more urgent than she thought.

She broke from his embrace, took hold of the waistband at the front of his trousers, and pulled him forward towards her bedroom. Lit only by the bedside lamp, the space had not quite had the time to get to complete tornado-style cluttered, though her suitcase from Thailand still sat packed at the foot of her bed.

"Going somewhere?" Mark teased.

"No making fun of my housekeeping," she said, reaching to undo his trouser button.

"I'll add that to the list of rules," he said; pushing her hand away, he added, "At a time like this, though, darling, it's far more expedient for me to get out of my own clothes."

As much as she liked divesting him of his clothing, she thought he was probably right.

And oh, how'd she'd missed his affectionate _darling_ s.

Within seconds he was out of the shoes, socks, trousers and shirt; when he saw she was undoing the buttons on the front of her own pyjama top he commanded, "No."

"No?" she said, smiling; he had always loved undressing her, as if each time he parted the halves of her shirt was a voyage of discovery. "Then you leave the boxers."

"Agreed," he said; his undershirt was already coming up over his head.

She pulled the sheets back just as he sidled up to her, turning her around to face him again. She asked, seeing the look of undisguised lust in his eyes, "Shall I climb in or are you just gonna throw me down and pounce on me?"

"I rather like option number two," he said, ensnaring her with his arms and thrusting his tongue into her mouth for a deep kiss; he bent at the knees, grabbed her arse and lifted her up. Automatically she raised her legs around him as he turned and kneeled on the bed, then lowered her upon the pillows.

Meticulously he undid each button of that silly pyjama shirt, then when the front of her top was completely undone, then he pushed the halves to each side. "My memory of you does you no justice," he said quietly, his gaze reverently regarding each pert breast in turn before his fingers followed suit, lightly tracing the edge of her ribcage to the curve under her arms and up to the petal-pink tips.

She could only close her eyes and gasp his name.

He then brought his fingers to each hip, pulling the elastic down of pyjama bottoms and pants alike. It would have been much easier for her to have removed them before they'd taken to the bed, but she was sure he would have insisted against that, too. She lifted her bottom in order for them both to be pulled down and off of her, one leg at a time.

"God, Bridget," he said as he sat kneeling between her legs, taking her in once more, running his hands up her thighs. "No justice at all." He scooted back on the bed a little then lowered his head to drive his tongue into her navel before placing open-mouthed kisses against her belly, felt to her surprise his fingers between her thighs again, pushing up into her in a firm and steady rhythm.

She could only moan, could hardly contain herself in thinking, _He's here, he's really here, and we're about to—_

He murmured quiet words of love to her, words she could barely hear but knew by heart from past experience, as she felt his teeth grazing against her lower abdomen, felt his chin pressing into her inner thigh.

_—he's about to—_

All of the air rushed out of her lungs as she felt his tongue against her wetness, licking, tasting, probing, as his fingers continued to move in her. It all seemed more than her mortal body could bear, like she might explode from the overwhelming sensations sparking through her. She called his name out between gasps and _oh_ s in a sort of broken-record loop, trembling from head to toe, grasping the sheets to either side of her and bowing her body up into him; she could not only hear but feel his deep voice against her as he gutturally urged her on.

It was not as if she needed much urging.

The abrupt force of her cry when she came surprised even herself, loud and thick with emotion; he did not cease his endeavour, however, until she'd peaked not once but multiple times. She closed her eyes, felt her light-headedness wane as she gulped down air to the feel of tender kisses against her thigh, her hip, her stomach again…

She had to wonder if maybe she'd blacked out because suddenly, it seemed, he was gazing down upon her as he rested next to her, head propped up in one hand. The look upon his face was part joy, part smugness. She blinked slowly, realising how sluggish her release had made her feel.

"I love when you look like this," he said. "I so missed it. Missed you."

"You're very good at making me look like this," she said, still recovering her breath; her words sounded slurred even to her own ears. "And you… you look like the cat that ate the canary."

"Being a gentleman," he said with a dirty smirk, "I will let that one slide by."

"I don't think gentleman do what you just did," she said impishly, blinking sleepily again. 

"Hm. Perhaps I'm not a gentleman, after all," he said, reaching to caress her breast and stomach again.

She snorted a little laugh, but just then something in her woke up, and her eyes went slightly wider. "Mark, what about you?"

"Many years of practicing self-restraint come in very handy at times," he said. "I am feeling very selfish tonight, so I'm willing to wait until you can see straight again."

"Selfish? How is what you just did selfish?"

"Greedy, perhaps, is a better word," he said, cupping her breast with his hand. "I want all the delight of pleasing you as much as I can before you can do the same for me."

She chuckled, then her smile faded. "I do love you," she said, all trace of playfulness gone.

He blinked, then leaned forward to kiss her. "I know," he said, touching his nose to hers.

"You _know_?" she said, pulling away, feigning affront.

"I know you love me as much as I do you."

She giggled. "Well played, sir. Well played."

She then allowed him to kiss her, and very quickly he was pulling himself flush against her. She slipped her hand to his waist but found he had already removed his boxers. "Mark, where's your—"

"Told you," he said between kisses, which were rapidly becoming quite ardent. "Selfish tonight." After a particularly long and satisfying kiss, he breathed into her ear, "Once I got down to it… didn't want anything to slow down my fucking you senseless."

_My, my_ , she thought, immediately overcome with desire again as he resumed the kiss. She didn't think she would ever let him know how much his use of that word completely and utterly turned her on.

Of course, he probably already knew.

She raked her nails over his back as he pulled himself on top of her; feeling him so hard against her bare belly, his hands roaming over her skin, she already felt her breath stuttering. As she stroked his hips, grazing them with her fingernails, they twitched forward and he moaned. Suddenly, perhaps in part due to that light touch, he was pressing his fingers into her again, causing her to whimper. _I like this kind of selfish_ , she thought; _very, very—_

Then she felt his fingers retreat; her breath came in short pants as she felt him nudge against then drive into her, a loud groan erupting from his throat as he did, before drawing back then lunging forward, again and again, ever more rapidly. The passion and energy of his thrusts far outstripped any of their past unions (except maybe that first one), and she knew that this, mixed with the wanton anticipation he was undoubtedly feeling, meant that he wasn't far at all from coming.

When she felt his thumb between their bodies, no pause whatsoever in his motion, to press into the knot of live wires just above where they were joined, she knew she wasn't, either. Pushing up into him in time as best she could, grasping his buttocks and pressing her fingers into them, her whole body trembled. Her head arched back, her eyes closed, and as she felt that release overtake her she cried out again, clinging to him as he continued his fevered rutting.

_Not for much longer_ , she thought; she could feel it in he way he was starting to shudder. She could feel the growl in his throat long before she heard it, and then it happened; his body stiffened as he thrust forward one final time, quivering and moaning as he came, his chin raised to the sky, a look of beautiful concentration on his features. The cry wound down; breathing heavily, he collapsed to the bed beside her, then reached to pull her to him. His face was buried in her pillow, his forehead against her chin.

He spent quite a few long moments in this manner; through the ebbing haze of her own passion, she might have been convinced he'd critically overexerted himself if not for the rise and fall of his chest, the feel of his humid breath on her neck, indicating he was in fact still taking in air.

She brushed her fingers against his shoulder. "Mark?"

He whispered something that sounded very sloppily like her name, altering the breathing-only thing by moving to press his lips against her throat in a kiss.

"A question for you," she said.

"Mmm," he said, rather noncommittally.

"Who exactly fucked whom senseless, here?"

She felt his body rock with silent laughter before his arm tightened around her waist again. "Touché," he said at last, evidently still too insensible to come up with a proper riposte.

It was no surprise to her that within moments he began snoring softly; she watched him sleep for what seemed like hours, running her fingers through his dark wavy hair, taking in his peaceful features and his lovely sculpted form, which was a welcome sight among the tangle of messy blankets and sheets.

She suddenly realised she could happily spend the rest of her life cooped up in her bedroom with him and the walls would never feel too close.

She also realised that she was absolutely, ravenously hungry. She grinned, glad to have her appetite back at last, even if it were at a most inconvenient time. Extricating herself from his embrace, she pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her chest. Before leaving the room, she glanced back to watch him greedily tug her pillow closer to his chin, and she smiled with a measure of satisfaction. Mark was back. He loved her and he was back.

She padded to the kitchen; when she saw that the window she'd opened before was still open, she hoped their voices hadn't carried too far. Blushing, she went over to close it as well as all the curtains, then went to her pantry, her mind still very much on both food and Mark.

Unfortunately the food pickings were slim. Bread, cheddar cheese, Branston pickle, mayonnaise, grape jelly, coffee, peanut butter. _Well_ , she thought, _three of those things sound half decent together_. And Shaz had recently brought her some more milk.

She was seated at her little writing table eating, almost done with her peanut butter and jelly sandwich and glass of milk, taking a very eager bite, when she heard a soft chuckle. She looked up, could feel the smudge of peanut butter on the corner of her mouth from that bite, and saw Mark standing there in all of his glory, a _contrapposto_ pose worthy of any Renaissance sculpture as he leaned against the door jamb. He looked sleepy but was smiling unguardedly.

"I hadn't eaten dinner," she explained hastily, as she chewed, then swallowed. "I've been all screwed up since Thailand." She took another bite, suddenly anxious to be done, then drank some milk to wash it down.

"Ah." He walked nearer to her, looking almost sheepish. "It's just that—I woke and you weren't there."

She smirked. "I'm surprised you woke. In fact, I'm surprised you're walking," she teased, taking in another sip of milk. "I'm almost done." She took another bite of her sandwich and to her horror a glob of grape jelly oozed out of the bottom of the bread and landed on her chest, just inside the edge of the blanket.

"By all means," he said, "allow me." He reached down, brushed the jelly from her skin with his slender finger, then held up the finger in front of her mouth. "I can't abide grape jelly," he explained.

She leaned and took his finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue (she had to be thorough, after all) and sucking her lips tight around it as he pulled it away, her eyes meeting his.

"However," he said huskily, "I have no objection to peanut butter."

He bowed down and covered her mouth with his, assiduously attending to the sullied corner, his hand cradling the back of her head. _Oh, God_ , she thought, her stomach fluttering. She was falling under again.

Evidently finished, he pulled her to her feet and tore the blanket off from around her. "I don't know what it's going to take to get to you to eschew covering that… _body_ of yours in front of me," he said appreciatively, faltering when it came to finding an adjective to actually describe what he thought of her figure, although honestly, the way he was running his hands over her breasts, hips and arse kind of said it all. "Maybe we'll just need to set another rule. Blankets and sheets are absolutely forbidden when climbing out of bed after sex."

"Mm," she said, feeling her eyes close again, her hands coming to rest lazily on his hips. He pulled her into him and bent to kiss her again; her arms went about his waist before she ran her fingertips up and down his spine.

He pulled back then began to kiss along her jaw until he got to her ear. "Let's go back to bed now, shall we?" he said, close to her ear, teasing her nipple with his thumb. Her desire was building exponentially, evident in the pulsing between her legs. "We can test this new rule." 

"Mm," she said again as his hand ran down from her breast to her hip and around to the small of her back. "I have a new rule for you."

"What's that, darling?" he asked. His hands were now working circles into her backside; each circle pressed her into him and served to underscore exactly how affected _he_ was.

"Don't bother to fucking ask when you've got me this worked up," she said, her lids heavy, her breath unsteady once more. "Take me when the mood strikes."

"When?" he queried, not ceasing the kisses he was placing on her throat; "Or where?"

"What the fuck ever."

He stopped suddenly, grabbed under her thighs and lifted her up, fixing his mouth over hers. She wrapped her legs around his waist again, and he carried her the few steps it took to get to the kitchen counter. Pushing aside the cutting board and the roll of paper towels, he set her down then promptly pulled her arse to the edge, breaking the kiss at last.

"If you insist," he said matter-of-factly. With that he took hold of her hips and thrust upwards into her. She groaned.

It was the first time she'd ever been shagged up against a breadbox.


	2. Chapter 2

_ii. to the break of the day_

It was some time before they actually made it back to the bedroom—the first rays of dawn were starting to colour the windows behind the blinds—and when she finally fell to sleep in his arms it was the deepest slumber she'd had in quite some time. Little wonder, really. Reconciled with the man she loved, and she had the aching thighs to prove it.

She awoke to the sound of a distant telephone ringing. _Her_ telephone.

_Shit_. She sat up to get a better look at the clock. Eleven-thirty. _Fuck._

"What is it?" came Mark's muzzy voice.

Trying to unbury herself from the sheets, she said, alarmed, "I'm really fucking late for work."

"Darling, it's Saturday."

She froze. How had she forgotten the day of the week? "Are you sure?"

He chuckled, snaking his arm around her waist. "Unless last night really was as long as it felt—three nights long—then yes, I'm sure."

"Oh." Panic subsiding, she laid back down, facing him, meeting his eyes.

He was regarding her with such an open, loving, yet extremely direct expression that she felt more vulnerable than she would have were she stark naked in Piccadilly Square. He then explained, a hint of a smile on his lips, "I think this is the first I've felt right since you left."

She smiled tenderly in agreement, then leaned forward to press her lips to his.

"Why did you look so traumatised just now?" he asked.

She shrugged, not really sure how to explain the piercing effect of his gaze. "You have a way of looking not just at me, but… sort of… _through_ me."

"Oh," he said sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise," she said hastily. "I just need to get used to it again."

He shifted his eyes down, a residual smile still on his face. "It's just that… I was thinking."

There was a seriousness to his tone that caused the panic to well up again. What if in the light of day he'd realised a reconciliation was impossible, as different as they were? That they made good friends, phenomenal lovers, but were never destined to be long term partners, soul mates?

She heard him start to chuckle again.

"What's so funny?"

"You're at it again. Looking traumatised."

"Shouldn't I be?" she asked. "Aren't you going to spring a very serious discussion on me now?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," he concurred, then quickly added, "but it doesn't have anything to do with what I think _you_ think it does."

"What?"

"Let's see," he explained patiently. "You are undoubtedly convinced I've come to my senses after a decent amount of sleep and a good f—well, a few good ones anyway, and am preparing to let you down easy."

She felt her skin crimson. She was so pathetically transparent at times.

"On the contrary," he said, smiling again. "I meant every word I said last night."

"Even the bit about the blanket?"

He laughed. "Especially the bit about the blanket."

"What if it's the dead of winter, it's cold and my heater's not working?"

"I won't let you out of bed," he said, pulling her up into his arms and onto his chest. "I think that's reasonable, don't you?"

She did, actually, and she smiled, her gaze fixed to his.

He spoke, serious again. "We are different types of people, Bridget, but as long as we're patient with each other, trust one another, talk to each other… it'll work. I know it'll work."

She kissed him, overcome with love for him once more, before resting her cheek against his skin, content to listen to his heartbeat, to feel the his chest moving beneath her.

Every word; he'd said he'd meant every word. She was not ever likely to forget a single word he'd said the previous night, and lying there enfolded in his arms, in the quiet of a lazy Saturday morning in her bedroom, surrounded by his scent and the almost tactile memory of their evening, one particular phrase stood out amongst all the others.

"Share your life?" she asked timidly.

He'd evidently started to doze again, and asked sleepily, "Huh?"

She pushed herself up to look at him. "Last night you said there was no one you would rather order takeaway pizza with, laugh with, or share your life with."

He raised his hand up and stroked her hair. "Very perceptive."

"So what did you mean by that?"

"What do you think I meant?"

She pursed her lips.

Finally he relented; at least she thought he did: "What size ring do you wear?"

Her mouth dropped open. _Ring?_ "Don't tease me, you bastard."

"I would never tease you. At least not for long." He wrapped his arms around her and rolled over so that she was beneath him, then began kissing her without abandon, his stubble delightfully rough on her cheek. She knew instantly where this was headed, was powerless to fight it, and returned the kiss with equal abandon. Into her ear he murmured, "I'd guess a seven or an eight," as his hands grasped her knees and pushed them apart to more easily accommodate what he intended to do.

It was when he was fully joined with her, thrusting into her with as much enthusiasm as he'd had the night before, bringing her ever closer to climax, that he said in a rough, unsteady voice, his breath sultry and close in her ear, "Fucking marry me."

Her cries in the affirmative might not have ordinarily had anything to do with his question, but in this case, they did.

………

An alarming and persistent pounding startled Bridget out of sleep, then ceased as quickly as it had begun. She sat up, looked to the clock— _blimey_ , she thought. It was three in the afternoon. Mark was not in the bed beside her. She raised her hand to her head, scratching at her hair as she yawned.

The pounding started again. She then heard the water running in the sink in the loo. She scooted to the edge of the bed and was surprised—though she shouldn't have been—when her legs were wobbly beneath her. She chuckled.

Mark appeared, stark naked still, at the bedroom door. "Are you expecting company?"

Just then she heard a voice at the door. "What the bloody hell, Bridge? Stood us up for lunch, not answering your phone, and now we're gonna miss the fucking movie!"

Bridget clamped her hands to her mouth. She had completely forgotten about her day out with Shaz, Jude and Tom.

Mark continued, "I could answer the door and tell them you have other plans."

She was not sure where this mischievous streak had come from, but she quite liked it. "Let me go assure them I'm not lying here waiting for the Alsatians to arrive."

He raised his chin, appearing thoughtful. "Our rules notwithstanding, I suppose you could put a robe on for that."

"We didn't _just_ have sex," she teased.

He made a show of glancing to the clock and raising an eyebrow.

"Well, not _just_ just."

" _Bridget!_ I'm busting the fucking door down!" came Sharon's determined voice.

She grabbed her robe from the chair, put it on, and hastily tied it up in front as she ran to the other side of the flat. "Hold on!" she called, crashing down the three or four steps to the flat door.

She swung the door opened and found Shaz with a very grumpy look on her face. "What the fuck—you're not even _dressed_? What the fuck are you—" She stopped dead in the middle of the sentence. "No. … _No!_ Perhaps the question should be ' _who_ the fuck are you doing?'! Did something… _come up_?" Giggling at her own cleverness, she pretended that her limp index finger suddenly sprang to attention.

She felt her skin turn absolutely crimson. "Shazzer, please. What are you, twelve?"

"And here we were trying to cheer you up when all you needed was a little… _ahem_ ," she said, waggling her eyebrows. "Find yourself a lovely little wild boy?"

"Shaz. Could you keep it down?"

Shaz' mouth formed a perfect circle. "Oh my God, is he still here?"

Bridget hesitated, which gave Shaz the opening she needed, dashing up the stairs to the middle of the flat. "Where is he? Hel _looooo_ , lovely little boy toy, where are youuuuu—"

At that moment, Mark, clad in a brown robe left over from when he'd stayed at her flat quite a lot, came into sight in the hallway, walking towards them. He looked serene, and, with the top of the robe opened just enough to show bare chest, devastatingly sexy. "Why, Sharon," he said, pretending to be surprised. "So nice to see you."

Bridget had to admit, it was pretty spectacular to see Shazzer so completely flummoxed. As was natural for her when she was at a loss for words, a giant plastered-on grin appeared on her face. "Hi! Mark!" she managed at last. "I had no idea that you—and Bridget—were, um, seeing each other again."

"Quite a lot of each other," he said completely straight-faced, "but only since last night."

"Oh. Ah. Well." Shaz cleared her throat. "I'd, uh, better get back down to the Mini before Tom and Jude decide they need to come up too. Call soon?"

Bridget fought a grin. "Yeah."

Sharon turned to head for the flat door and had almost gotten there when Mark called out, "Oh, and Sharon? Thanks for not saying anything about… Thailand."

Shaz stopped, turned, and looked to Mark. "No problem." She smiled, then added, "Thanks for, you know. Doing what none of us could have done."

As she closed the door behind her friend, Bridget initially thought Shaz might have meant the Thailand release, but with the way Shaz' smile turned into a smirk, Shaz might have meant something on a slightly more personal level. She snorted a laugh.

Mark obviously heard her do so, and offered, "I think she meant rescue you from feeling blue."

"You really don't know Shaz very well, do you?" she said, turning to him with a grin.

"Oh, we talked frequently enough during my attempt to spring you from jail," he said, "but we hardly moved beyond professional conversations. As she is one of your best girlfriends, though, I do hope to remedy that oversight in the very near future."

He wanted to like her crazy friends. It must have been love. Bridget approached him, her eyes (and fingers) drawn to his bare chest, running the pads lightly over his skin. "Is this normal?"

"Is what normal? Chest hair on men? Bridget, honestly."

She giggled. God, it felt good to have him back, to _really_ have him back, like he'd never left.

"No, silly. I meant normal to spend all day in bed; having sex, sleeping, waking up, looking at you and wanting you all over again?"

The adorably shy smugness of his expression melted her all over again. "Hm. It's not normal for me. I'm not used to being a, shall we say, serial offender."

She laughed, stretching up on her toes to delicately kiss him on the lips, running her fingers into his tousled brown locks, going from flippant to frisky in one fell swoop. She took much delight in teasing him: just when it seemed she was going to deepen her kiss, she retreated back to the feather-light ones, which caused him to be a little more forceful in his pursuit of her mouth.

"Dammit, Bridget," he said, breathing erratically between those promissory kisses, "I was hoping for a little food."

She stopped, settling back on her heels, running her hands down his chest to the tie of the robe. "Food?" she said with unconvincing innocence. "Why didn't you say so sooner? I could make you your very own peanut butter—"

He tugged her own robe opened, pushing it forcefully over her shoulders. "It wasn't a request, it was a stomach's lamentation."

She grinned, then remembered he too was only wearing a robe. Her hands tugged the knot open, and went immediately to his hips, thinking how wonderful it was for the curtains to still be drawn.

She sometimes forgot that he didn't consider himself to be the utterly unselfconscious sex god she thought him to be, that he found it amazing at times that someone 'like her' (whatever that meant) could want him as much as she did. Time to reaffirm that little misapprehension… and to be a little bit selfish, too.

Still holding his hips, she swept her thumbs along his abdomen, then got up on her toes to give him the deep kiss with which she'd been taunting him. He responded by pulling her up against him. She ran her palms up over his very hard nipples, before raking her nails back down, around his hips and to his arse. Reflexively he bucked his pelvis forward.

She arched her back away from him enough to slip her hand between them, running her fingers lightly down the length of him, and found that the kiss, the touching, was enough to get him well on his way. She heard him exhale sharply, grinding forward into her again. _Not quite yet_ , she thought.

As she continued to kiss him, she wrapped her fingers around him and began to pull down firmly. He grasped her shoulders and held on, swaying on his feet a little, making inarticulate little sounds deep in his throat as she continued to stroke up and down. The thrill she felt knowing she could make him lose control like she did was beyond satisfying… as well as stimulating.

His fingers tightened into her shoulders. Her legs were starting to ache from being up on tiptoes. She had an idea.

Breaking away from the kiss, she stepped back.

"Bridget," he said desperately. 

She grinned, and with her arm around his waist, she led him towards the blue chair. "Come on, I just don't want you to fall over."

Sure in the knowledge she wasn't going to leave him hanging, as it were, he obediently slouched into the chair. She straddled his lap, resuming both the kiss and the attention she was giving him with her hand. She then moved her lips to his chin, his jaw, then his neck just under his ear; his head fell back and she could see his eyes close. His breathing got heavy and ragged; she intensified her touch, putting more pressure into her grasp, pulling and pushing at a more rapid pace. She wound her free hand around to his hip and arse, and could feel the muscles there tensing and flexing.

Her mouth not breaking contact with his skin, she moved from his neck to his throat to his collarbone, then teased a nipple with her teeth (causing him to buck upwards again) as she slipped off of his lap, eased his legs apart and kneeled between his legs. Her tongue traced a line down his abdomen to his navel; she glanced up to see he had drawn his lower lip between his teeth, could see the pulse racing in his neck.

She smirked a little. Time to really make him squirm.

She pulled back far enough to touch her tongue to the very tip of him, and as she did, he gasped. As she drew her lips together to form a kiss, his hips twitched forward again. Opening her mouth just enough to swirl her tongue around the head, she watched him toss his head side to side, panting.

"Bridget," he moaned, then rasped, "you're fucking killing me here."

She liked making him lose control very much, indeed.

Not ceasing the motion of her tongue, she placed her hands on his hips and raked her nails down the tender creases of his legs, bringing them close to his groin but not touching him again.

He moaned her name again. Benevolently she decided he'd had enough, and abruptly took him into her mouth as far as she could, drawing her lips tightly around him, pushing forward then pulling back, faster and faster.

His fingers went white on the arms of the chair, could not help but raise his hips up into her downward movements. She lifted her eyes, and with his head still tilted back against the chair, she could see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he continued gasping and muttering things she couldn't quite make out but was familiar enough with, things he often murmured in her ear when he had her splayed out beneath him and on the edge of climax.

With these thoughts racing in her head, her ministrations intensified, her fingers squeezing into his skin. It didn't take long for his body to tense up and for him to shudder with his release. She held on to his hips and didn't pull away until she was sure he was spent.

He struggled to say her name again, gulping air down, bringing his hand down to touch her hair before falling limp to his side. She ran her hands up along his hips, getting to her feet again to sit on his thigh. She leaned into him, kissed the hair at his temple, and whispered, drawing back to smile at him in what she knew was a very helplessly adoring way, "I love you."

He opened his eyes, looked up to her somewhat blearily, and smiled too, his hand raising to rest on her hip. "And you do it _so_ well," he said.

There was no way she was going to fuck this up again.

She rested her cheek against his temple again, closing her eyes, her hand curling around to stroke the hair the back of his head. She could have stayed like that for many minutes more but was becoming aware of her weight on his leg, so she stood and held her hand out, wordlessly inviting him for a shower. He took it, unsteadily getting to his feet, stretching his arms up over his head. She looked at him, his lean, lovely body, unabashedly. He then stopped, took a step back, and appeared to be staring at something on her bookcase.

"Why do you seem so surprised to see I still have your picture there?"

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

"Bridget," he asked, looking at her again, "exactly how long has your telly been on?"

She laughed; laughed that she'd forgot it was on, that he hadn't noticed it on when he arrived, that she hadn't noticed it on closing the curtains in the middle of the night. When she explained, he laughed too.

………

"Bridget, I have a problem."

"Hm?" she asked, rinsing conditioner from her hair. He was already out of the shower, probably combing his hair or shaving, if she remembered his routine correctly.

"I don't have a razor to shave with—" _Not shaving then_ , she thought. "—or a change of clothes, and the ones I had on last night probably look rather disreputable, as they've been sitting on a pile on your bedroom floor."

"Oh. You can use my razor if you like."

"No, thanks, I'd prefer to keep my facial skin intact. No, the real problem is the fact that I haven't had any food since dinner last night."

"Hm, don't suppose a smudge of peanut butter counts, after all," she agreed. "My cupboard's awfully bare. Want to call for pizza?"

"Darling, I am not celebrating our reunion, our engagement—" Her stomach flipped as he said the word; _mmm, best proposal ever_ , she thought. "—with a slice of barely edible pepperoni pizza and glass of cheap red wine."

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, there's a new Chinese bistro I've heard nice things about. I'd love to take you there."

She grinned. "I'm sure your clothes don't look that bad; you could pop them in the dryer to get out the wrinkles," she said, switching off the water. She pulled aside the shower curtain, saw him standing there in his towel. "And you look kind of cute all scruffy like that." The stubble wasn't really that noticeable, and in fact it lent a certain unkempt, almost rebellious quality to his usual impeccably groomed self.

He pursed his lips, but she knew he was pleased for the compliment. His eyes then roamed over her appreciatively. "You look kind of amazing all wet and glistening like that."

"Mark. You're never going to get a meal at this rate if you keep that up," she teased, chuckling and rolling her eyes as she climbed out of the bathtub.

He handed her a towel, laughing too. "It's really too bad man cannot live on sex alone."

"Mmm. Think of how thin I'd be," she mused, mostly to herself, towelling the water off of her arms and legs.

He tsked her. "You're coming daringly close to breaking a rule," he said.

"What if I do?" she challenged.

He swatted her bare arse with a light smack. "There's more where that came from."

_Promises, promises_ , she thought lustily.

He added, seeming to sense her thoughts, "I'll go get my clothes on."

………

Mark had chosen well in the restaurant they'd gone to. The décor was phenomenal, the food amazing, the wait staff attentive without being overbearing. They were through with appetizers and were waiting for their entrees when Bridget excused herself to use the ladies. She stood, bending to kiss him. "Be right back."

He smirked.

The loo itself was gorgeous: tiled with lovely natural stone, vases of flowers, and probably the largest stalls she'd ever seen, with the unusual quality of having stall walls and doors that reached from ceiling to floor. _Talk about privacy_ , she thought; _They spared no expense._

She was standing at the sink afterwards, washing her hands, when the door opened. She thought nothing of it until she felt a hand on her hip, lips upon her neck.

"Mark!" she gasped. "This is the ladies' loo!"

He brought his finger up to his lips. "Anyone else in here?" he whispered.

"No, I don't think—"

He herded her off of to the last stall on the row, closed the door behind them, then turned her around, and started voraciously kissing her, pressing her up against the wall.

Wasting no time, he reached up under her skirt and pulled down her pants.

"Mark, we shouldn't," she gasped, her protests seeming especially futile when his fingers began stroking her quite fervently.

"Bridget," he growled, "shut the fuck up."

He covered her mouth with his own again to silence any further objection. He tasted faintly of sweet hoisin and spicy mustard as he ravenously kissed her, pressing himself into her as he continued teasing her with his fingertips. She whimpered into his mouth. Between the kisses and the caresses she was beyond turned on and ready for him; she suspected he was ready as well.

She then heard him pull down his zipper, felt him lift her leg and—

_Oh, God_ , she thought as he abruptly drove into her, moaning into his kiss, hoping she wasn't making too much noise but feeling too good to care. She lifted her legs to wrap around his waist; he raked his blunt fingernails on the underside of her thighs as he grabbed her arse. She held on to him as he thrust feverishly into her.

She didn't know if it was the thrill of possible discovery, if it was Mark's surprising initiative in this endeavour, or what, but it took very little time at all for her to reach climax. He soon followed.

She dropped her feet to the floor to find her shoes had fallen off. They fortunately did not have far to skitter away, and also thankfully neither had landed in the toilet itself. After a moment during which they each recovered their breath, he allowed himself one more kiss before stepping back, righting his trousers, then cupping her face with his hand. "I'll see you back at the table," he said lovingly, before leaving the stall.

She pulled up her pants, smoothed down her skirt, and slipped her low pumps back on. _That man has some explaining to do_ , she thought, though she could not wipe the smile off of her face.

Pausing to check her hair in the mirror and to remedy the state of her lipstick, she then left the ladies to head back to her table. It was then she noticed a familiar face—a familiar pair of faces, actually—staring up at her from a table a few feet away. It was Jeremy, looking astonished yet undeniably smirking, along with Magda, who smiled and winked at her as she went by.

They must have seen Mark leaving the table after her and returning just before she had. They undoubtedly knew what had happened. She felt her skin turn crimson and waved back, deciding not to stop by their table.

She took her seat, found her dinner had arrived. "Saw Jeremy with Magda," said Mark soberly, taking in a piece of chicken and a snow pea pod with his chopsticks, then began to chew, reaching for his Chinese tea cup.

She was at a loss for words. It was unbelievable how nonchalant he was being.

Until he directed his very smoky gaze at her.

He then said, lowering his voice, "I believe it was you who said, and I quote, 'Take me when the mood strikes'."

She widened her eyes. "I didn't mean in public…" she said, drifting off.

"And now you see why we lawyers are so precise in our wording." He drank from his tea cup. "There was also the matter of a little _quid pro quo_ for earlier too. Couldn't bear to think of you unsatisfied."

She chuckled, taking her own chopsticks into hand, diving into her crispy honey chicken. "I am anything but unsatisfied."

They were just about finished with dinner itself when she saw Magda and Jeremy approaching on their way out of the bistro. _Oh holy Jesus_ , she thought. _Train wreck about to happen and there's nothing I can do about it._

"I thought I saw the two of you together," said Magda. "When did this happen, you know… a couple again?"

"Last night," answered Mark, turning to Magda with a smile. Surely he knew she knew what had happened in the loo. _Surely._

"Oh, I'm so pleased," she said. "Aren't we pleased, Jerrers?"

"Absolutely. Well done, old chap. Well done indeed."

Mark smiled, touching his napkin to his lips. "Yes," he said. "I think so too."

"We're celebrating our reunion—" offered Bridget.

"Most spectacularly," interrupted Magda, arching one eyebrow, before she could get out the news about the engagement.

"Quite a top-notch restaurant," Mark said, seemingly ignoring Magda's not-so-veiled hint as to the goings-on in the loo. "Fantastically accommodating, and privacy absolutely assured when needed. You could be two metres from your nearest neighbour and not hear a thing. Haven't you found that to be the case, Magda?"

"Um, yes, I suppose so," said Magda, looking a bit freaked at being put on the spot; Bridget thought that of all the people she knew, Magda would be the last one to get pulled into a tryst in the loo, save perhaps Perpetua. He was being so devilish. Had he always been this way, and she'd been too preoccupied with meeting perfection metrics to notice?

Mark added: "This was the first place to come to mind, as far as where to take Bridget tonight."

Bridget fought the urge to giggle at the careful choice of his words. So devilish indeed.

"Ah," said Jeremy, an edge of disbelief (yet approval) in his voice.

"Yes," Mark continued. "I'm finding this place quite satisfying in every respect. Quite satisfying. All in all, an excellent place to come."

Bridget bit her lower lip. 

"…Though despite so much planning," he went on, "it ended up happening rather… _spontaneously_ , after all." Magda's hand fluttered to her throat. Mark reached across the table and took Bridget's hand. "The ring is forthcoming."

"Ring?" Magda blinked, her mind obviously still quite on another subject. "Oh! _Engaged?_ Bridget, why didn't you say so?" gushed Magda, looking relieved as well as happy.

"I tried," Bridget said with a grin.

They offered their congratulations, then hurriedly excused themselves.

"They left in a rush," commented Mark.

"They probably wanted to leave before you assaulted them with more bewilderingly uncharacteristic double-entendres," said Bridget with a smirk.

He chuckled, then asked, "Do you want dessert?" After a beat, he added, "Or has that requirement already been fulfilled?"

She laughed again.

………

The unspoken destination at the end of the night was Bridget's flat; however, they stopped by the blinding artificial brightness of Tesco in order to pick up provisions to stock Bridget's shelves with so they could eat something for breakfast that wasn't peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They then went to Mark's house in order for him to pick up some clothes and his overnight toilette kit.

"I had to brush a layer of dust off of this thing before heading out for Lyon," he admitted as he threw his things in.

She didn't know whether to be happy that he hadn't seen any other women, or profoundly sad that he could have been seeing her.

"We'll put it to good use now," she offered, patting his shoulder reassuringly. "Making up for lost time."

"Very true," he said, throwing in his aftershave and zipping up the bag, then turning to look to her. "And that is something I very much intend on doing."

………

"What a day," said Bridget to herself in the bathroom mirror, thinking about the place she was in twenty-four hours ago and where she was now. She glanced down, at his toothbrush next to the sink, his zippered bag off to the side, and smiled. From 'no hope' to 'engaged', from 'celibate' to anything but. She couldn't be happier, and that was saying something considering only yesterday—

"Bridget?" he called to her from the bedroom, interrupting her thoughts.

"Almost through."

He'd washed up and shaved while she'd giddily called Shaz, Tom and Jude to impart the good news; thankfully, Magda had not spoilt the surprise. So now she hurriedly did her teeth, washed her face, and brushed out her hair, looking down to examine her bare body before switching out the light. She wasn't sure what exactly he thought was so amazing about it, but she was glad he thought so all the same.

She stepped into her room. He was in bed already, sitting up against the pillows. The only light on was her bedside lamp and it was casting its warm amber light across the scene, his bare chest, the sheets pulled to his waist, the pillows, his chestnut eyes and hair. He was smiling tenderly at her.

On her side of the bed, the sheets were turned down invitingly. She was not one to refuse the invitation.

She had barely settled in, had barely laid the sheets back down over her legs, when he reached across to slip a hand across her abdomen and began to nuzzle her neck. She started to giggle, but quickly stopped, loving the feel of his freshly-shaven cheek against her skin.

"Shall I switch the light off?" she asked. She had taken to keeping the light on constantly since coming back from Thailand, finding solace in its glow, but with Mark there, she hardly needed to keep it on now or in future.

"Leave it on," he said, grasping her hip and pulling her close. "The better to see you with, my darling."

She made a little sound as he pulled her knee up over his leg and kissed her. He then proceeded to make tortuously slow love to her, as if trying to make up for the urgency of the last day: brushing reverent fingertips over her skin, raising bumps and heightening all sensation in their wake; grazing his teeth over the hard points of her breasts until she cried out; making her go hoarse from moaning as she came.

Not that he didn't enjoy himself along the way. He made that abundantly and audibly clear.

As he laid there afterwards sprawled partly on her, gently placing open-mouthed kisses on the skin of her throat as he whispered disconnected words of love to her, she thought again about the chance encounter—she, bored with watching telly in the dark; he, taking a midnight meander—and realised he had never really explained his presence on the street the night before.

Reaching still-trembling fingers to comb into his hair, she asked him.

He stopped and raised his head, his dark eyes shining in the light of the lamp.

"Every night since the day you got back," he admitted, almost reluctantly, it seemed, "I would take a walk, circling past your building."

Every night? "What? Why on earth—?" she began, drifting off.

"It's silly," he said.

"Try me."

He didn't reply right away, and when he did it was still reluctantly: "I was… looking for the light on in the window I knew to be your bedroom, to prove to myself that you really were back, that you really still existed, even if I wasn't a part of that existence any longer."

"Oh, Mark," she said with a catch in her voice, pushing herself up to take him in her arms and hold him very close to her. "There's nothing at all silly about that."

"I only wish I'd had the courage to—" he began quietly.

"Shh, quiet, none of that," she instructed, pulling back to look at him. "That's past and done. We have a lot to look forward to."

He kissed her again. "That's very true." He smiled. "Tell me. Would you prefer gold or platinum?"

She grinned.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Bridget and Mark were not with anyone else during their time apart, and Bridget's probably on the Pill, has a contraceptive implant, or similar. I'm just sayin'. ;)
> 
> Last but not least: reproduced without permission, the song to inspire it all:
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight)_   
>  by Abba
> 
> Half past twelve   
> And I'm watching the late show in my flat all alone   
> How I hate to spend the evening on my own   
> Autumn winds   
> Blowing outside my window as I look around the room   
> And it makes me so depressed to see the gloom   
> There's not a soul out there   
> No one to hear my prayer
> 
> [Chorus:]   
>     Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight   
>     Won't somebody help me chase the shadows away   
>     Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight   
>     Take me through the darkness to the break of the day
> 
> Movie stars   
> Find the end of the rainbow, with a fortune to win   
> It's so different from the world I'm living in   
> Tired of T.V.   
> I open the window and I gaze into the night   
> But there's nothing there to see, no one in sight   
> There's not a soul out there   
> No one to hear my prayer
> 
> [Repeat Chorus, and many more gimmes...]


End file.
